


Recitation

by magickus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aymeric's POV, Crossdressing, Desk Sex, Established Relationship, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), M/M, Male Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Reunion Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Stockings, thigh highs, thigh kink, ultimate wingman lucia, ultimate wingman tataru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22263001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magickus/pseuds/magickus
Summary: It has been far too long since they last saw each other. Luckily, the Warrior of Light has a gift to make up for lost time.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	Recitation

**Author's Note:**

> im surprised at the lack of tags for thigh stuff.
> 
> i've been meaning to write aymeric smut for a while but couldn't think of anything. then i managed to put my wol in the spring dress. and, well, the rest is history.
> 
> you can see him in all his pretty glory on my twitter @magyckus wink wink nudge nudge

A knock at his office door stirs Aymeric from his concentration. He bites back a flicker of frustration and dabs his quill twice pointedly into the ink. "Enter," he says, steeling himself for whatever complaints House Dzemael decided to flaunt today.

The person who shuffled into his office is as far from a noble steward as anyone can get. Aymeric's quill slips from his fingers. Claran smiles, hale and whole and  _ here, _ in his office, after so long with only a letter from Tataru reassuring him that Claran wasn't dead. 

A generous covering of fur and fabrics protects his small frame from the bitter cold. His spectacles slip down his nose and with a scrunch of his face he rights them. Aymeric's heart skips in his chest. The joy almost kills him. "S-sorry, Aymeric. Am I interrupting? I can come back later."

"Not at all," Aymeric says quickly, recollecting his composure. He stands and comes around his desk to gather Claran in his arms and hold tight. "It is good to see you."

Claran's cheeks flush and he encircles his arms around Aymeric's waist, hands against the small of his back. "Sorry for not writing," he says, voice muffled against Aymeric's chest. "I've been, um, preoccupied. And I… wanted to surprise you."

_ Halone, _ Aymeric missed him. He guides Claran's chin up to get a better look at his face; round cheeks, dark doe-eyes, long, fluttering white lashes. He gives into temptation and leans down to press a delicate kiss to Claran's lips. He presses back, tentative, soft.

"I'm distracting you, aren't I?" Claran breathes.

Aymeric chuckles. "I could do with a distraction. I am certain Lucia is weary of reminding me to take breaks by now."

Claran's eyes dart to the side. He worries his lower lip between his teeth. The flush on his cheeks builds, an undertone of warmth beneath brown skin. "W-well, I mean, if…" he stammers. "I-If you want, I can… maybe not here, but… Ah."

Claran steps out of the embrace, wringing his hands together. Aymeric believes he knows Claran well enough to tell when there is something bothering him, something he wants. Aymeric waits patiently for Claran to collect his thoughts. He mumbles something under his breath— Aymeric catches something about Tataru and her ideas and gleans an inkling of what might happen— and lifts trembling hands to the collar of his coat. "I-I think maybe I should just show you."

That piques Aymeric’s interest. He watches raptly as Claran's fingers fumble with the clasp of his coat. His eyes draw to the patch of bare skin revealed beneath, the gentle bob of Claran's throat as he swallows. In one fluid motion, the coat falls.

Aymeric's expectations are met, and then thoroughly overwhelmed. His eyes widen and his lips part in awe. Claran refuses to meet his gaze, instead staring hard at the floor, lips pursed and brows creased.

Beneath his bulky coat hid a dress. A very cute, well-crafted dress, of airy white cotton the same shade as his hair and sky blue silk hems, adorned with trims of flowers and bows. The sleeves rest off his shoulders, exposing the gentle slope of his clavicles. A blue band cinches his waist, draws the fabric in close to his frame where it is desired most, so Aymeric can fully appreciate the concave of his waist and the fullness of his hips. Claran shifts beneath his scrutiny and his eyes snap down to where the dress cuts off. A section far shorter than the rest lingers at mid-thigh. Further below, he wears delicate white stockings and dainty shoes with a hint of heel.

It's a far cry from his usual baggy, unflattering clothes. Aymeric had never seen him wear anything showing even a hint of skin below his neck. He's unused to it, told by his worried shuffling, but the dress is elegant, tasteful, sweet—  _ good gracious. _ Aymeric reminds himself to send Tataru a letter expressing his utmost gratitude and respect.

Aymeric swallows. The air in his office turned stifling at some point. Claran glances up from beneath his lashes, then back down. "I… sorry," he says, misinterpreting Aymeric's awestruck silence for disapproval. "It's too much, isn't it? I-I knew it was a bad idea, I shouldn't have…"

He bends down to retrieve his coat. Aymeric catches a glimpse of bare thighs, supple flesh jutting just-so over the band of the stockings where they hug a hair too tight.

In the next heartbeat he has Claran sitting on his desk. He can't recall making any decision to move, only the powerful desire to bury his face against that tantalizing strip of skin. Since he is unlearning years of emotional repression and giving in more to his vices, he elects to follow through.

Claran gasps as Aymeric's mouth finds its mark. He kisses and licks, tasting salt and lavender soap. He ducks his head beneath the dress and continues up, sucking bruises onto smooth skin, relishing the give of soft flesh beneath his teeth.

"A-Aymeric," Claran squeaks. His legs tighten around Aymeric's shoulders. "Here? A-Are you sure? Some could come in and— hah!"

Aymeric presses the flat of his tongue to the growing bulge in Claran's underwear. He hears a weak moan, the crinkle of paper. "Y-your work," Claran whines. Aymeric cannot be bothered to care about paperwork. Not right now, at least.

Aymeric draws back, already missing Claran's skin. He grasps Claran's hips and squeezes gently. "We can relocate, if you prefer," he says. Claran catches his lip between his teeth again, torn. "Did Lucia see you?"

Claran nods. "She let me in."

Aymeric smiles. "Then no one will disturb us."

Realization dawns on Claran's face. He covers it with one hand, hiding away his embarrassment. Aymeric reaches up to usher his hand away. His eyes are wide, averted, vulnerable. "If you are uncomfortable, we can—"

"No," Claran blurts. "No, it's… I might have thought of this before, on your desk—"

Heat rushes south at Claran's sheepish admission. He restrains himself no longer, allows that simmering desire to burst forth and consume him. One sweep of his hand sends paper flying to the floor. Claran shoots Aymeric a horrified look at his rough treatment of important documents and he's quick to kiss it away. He pulls Claran's thighs apart and slots his hips between them, rolling forward to pull a sweet moan from bitten lips. Aymeric's tongue licks into Claran's mouth, savors his taste— apples and cinnamon— a hand slides into his hair and grips tight, drawing him in closer and closer.

"Aymeric," Claran gasps, exquisite in his longing. His back arches as Aymeric's fingers dive beneath his dress and discover the full hardness of his cock. He pulls his undergarments down, kissing the skin revealed until his mouth finds Claran's cock. He takes it into his mouth, lighting up at the needy cry he receives in reward. Bitter precum drips onto his tongue and he swallows. Claran's thighs close around his head. His hand falls to his dress where Aymeric dutifully sucks him off beneath, fingers twisting into the fabric. Claran gasps and shakes, squirming beneath the attention, bucking up into Aymeric's mouth with gentle, worried motions, like he doesn't want to hurt Aymeric but can't resist the pleasure of his mouth.

Aymeric groans. He aches in his armor. He reaches over and fumbles with one of the desk drawers, searching blindly inside until he finds a small vial of oil used for long nights.

He coats his fingers and Claran squeaks as he presses the first inside. He tenses, surprised by the intrusion, but a flick of Aymeric's tongue against his slit has him melting once more. A single thrust at a certain angle makes him cry out. He shakes.

"Ay-meric—" His voice grows higher, more strained. He's close. One finger turns into two. Aymeric removes his mouth from Claran's cock, prolonging the moment, and focuses on teasing the slit with his tongue. He stretches Claran, hitting just shy of his prostate. Claran whines in protest and rolls his hips down, greedily taking more, sending him deeper inside. He draws back to see Claran's pleasure-slackened expression, lips kissed pink and swollen, parted around lilting notes of  _ need. _

For him. All for him. That Aymeric managed to gain the affections of someone so wonderful will always surprise him.

_ "Please,"  _ Claran whispers. "Please Aymeric, please please—"

His body gives beneath every touch. Aymeric withdraws and quells Claran's whine of protest with another searing kiss. He fumbles with his belt, fingers clumsy with eagerness and slippery with slick, and with a startling— and extremely arousing— amount of certainty Claran bats his hands away and undoes the strap with practiced ease. He frees his cock, slicks himself up, and thrusts,  _ finally, _ into Claran's open hole.

Relief and elation surge through Aymeric as they join. How long has it been, since they could be together like this? Too  _ damn _ long. 

Every exhale shakes from Claran's lungs, face slackened as he adjusts to the intrusion. As soon as Claran wiggles his hips encouragingly Aymeric starts up a quick, surefire pace, jerking in and out of Claran's tight heat. Wet walls embrace his cock, each brush of soft friction sparking through the base of Aymeric's spine. Claran's breathy sighs and moans add kindling to the flame. He pushes Claran’s dress up so he can watch, entranced, as Claran's body takes him in with ease over and over. Claran's moans grow higher, louder. He sees it too, eyes glued to the impossibly erotic sight of Aymeric fucking him, taking him,  _ claiming _ him.

Claran's hand slips on a stray paper. He falls back against the desk with a squeak and Aymeric falters.

"A-Are you alright?" he pants. He stops and cups Claran's cheek, stroking soft, fevered skin with his thumb.

"'m fine," he mumbles. "Keep going. Please."

Aymeric nods. The pace builds once more, with Claran stretched out across his desk. His dress gathers around his waist, exposing the smooth slopes of his legs adorned by those lovely stockings, up to his stretched, pink hole and the curve of his cock, leaking into delicate folds of fabric. The dress slips too low down his shoulders and reveals the smooth plane of his chest and the top of one delicate nipple. Aymeric tugs the halter down and affixes his mouth to the dusky bud. He rolls his tongue over it, relishing the cry Claran makes.

It cuts off. Aymeric glances up and finds Claran with his hand over his mouth. That won't do. Aymeric  _ needs _ to hear him, to recall how lovely he sounds when in the throes of ecstasy. Aymeric takes his hand and presses it to the desk, laces their fingers together and squeezes tight.

"Let me," he whispers. "Please."

Claran keens. His glasses skew on his cheeks, eyes hot and heavy-lidded beneath, pupils blown wide, black swallowing brown. Unshed tears swim in his lashes. His lips part around labored breaths, his brows knit in an expression of utmost bliss.

He looks gorgeous, debauched, thoroughly fucked out of his mind. Aymeric grabs his hip in one hand and moves harder, faster, holding his small frame still as he presses him down and gives him  _ everything. _ Claran practically screams and his legs lock around Aymeric's waist as he writhes. The desk creaks dangerously, thumping with the rhythmic motion of Aymeric's hips. It's quick and dirty, so improper and so  _ good. _

Neither of them last. The desperation is too much, the drive to reach that peak together taking complete precedence. Aymeric kisses him again, swallowing his cries, his hand flying between their bodies to grasp Claran's cock and stroke him to completion. The warmth gathers in his hips and boils over. His thrusts turn graceless and erratic. Claran's lips move against his own, gasping out a desperate mantra, a prayer— 

_ "Aymeric! I’m— coming! I’m coming!” _

_ Fury, _ hearing his name in that sweet, ruined voice is too much for him. He focuses on that budding warmth, sacrificing all semblance of technique or rhythm to chase his release. Claran mewls and seizes beneath him. He draws tight around Aymeric's cock and spills into the fabric of his dress, his mouth shaped around a silent moan. It's wonderful and filthy and perfect.

The pleasure bowls him over not long after. Aymeric's hips jerk forward in small motions, milking himself dry as he spills into welcoming heat. It crashes through him and lights him up, lingering bright-white before it fades away and leaves him drained.

He breathes hard. He stares down at Claran, limp and spent against him, cum cooling on his stomach and the fabric of his dress. Aymeric wars with satisfaction and guilt over making a mess of something so pretty.

He glances up at Claran's vacant expression. That's two pretty things he's made a mess of tonight.

"Still here?" he asks, gentling his tone. Claran hums absently and nods.

"I ruined your paperwork," he slurs. "And my dress."

Aymeric kisses Claran's cheek. "Both can be easily tended to," he assures. Another kiss. "Later, of course." Claran squirms and giggles beneath the third kiss. "The most pressing matter at the moment is to get you home, in my arms."

Claran ducks his head. Aymeric settles for kissing his hair. "With tea?" he asks, voice small and soft.

Aymeric's heart clenches. He chuckles. "I still keep a box of your favorite kind, just in case of unexpected visits."

Claran looks up at him, eyes sparkling in awe. "Apple cinnamon?"

Aymeric nods slowly, with great weight and severity, because tea is a subject of severe importance between them. "Apple cinnamon," he confirms.

Claran kisses him deeply in thanks. It takes another few moments to extricate themselves from each other’s arms and properly leave the office, but they make each other presentable and hurry out, linked arm-in-arm and laughing.

Lucia, standing vigil a healthy distance away from the entrance to the Forgotten Knight, catches Aymeric's eye as they pass. She smirks knowingly. Aymeric decides to give her a very generous bonus in her salary this month.


End file.
